


a sea, sundering

by just_one_iota



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Elrond is a sad boi, Family Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Grandparents & Grandchildren, background Elrond/Gil-galad/Celebrian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:07:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28295781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_one_iota/pseuds/just_one_iota
Summary: Elrond loves his family. If only it were all that simple.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 29
Collections: Tolkien Secret Santa 2020





	a sea, sundering

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ElegantBookworm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElegantBookworm/gifts).



> A TSS gift for theelegantbookworm, who asked for Elrond meeting his grandchildren and said that they shipped Finrod/Amarie, Eowyn/Faramir, Tuor/Idril and Elboron/ one of Aragorn’s daughters. I hope this is okay!

_Once there was a little star_

_Shining like the morning_

_Cleansing all the world it touched_

_And Varda’s brow adorning_

  


_It was dark before you came_

_A light burst without warning_

_Gliding down on moon rays soft_

_Comforting and warming_

  


_I love you always, little star_

_Still growing and still forming_

_Changing every soul you touch_

_And all my life transforming._

  


“Eee!” baby Alamelda cried with delight. She reached up to yank on whatever she could grab. Since her arms were still tragically short, this turned out to be the rope that tied the top of a pair of robes together. The tie shifted and almost unravelled the knot.

“Oh no no no," ex-High King Gil-galad of the Noldor admonished merrily, shifting his daughter to his other arm and trying to adjust his robes one-handed. "No stealing clothes. What has your mother been teaching you?”

“I can vouch that Celebrian is very good at stealing clothes,” Elrond offered up cheekily. Gil-galad pulled a face at him. Laughing, Elrond crossed the room to press a kiss to his forehead in apology.

How strange it was to be unable to stop his mouth from smiling.

Gil-galad tilted his forehead against his husband’s and Elrond leaned into it. The baby was tucked securely between them, and looked up with wide little eyes.

"I leave the two of you alone with our child for a week," Gil-galad rumbled, "and I come back to her trying to steal my clothes. Clearly you've been instilling bad habits."

"Or she's just a troublemaker like her parents." Elrond pressed his lips to his husband's cheek and withdrew until he could see Gil-galad's smile in full.

“Have you thought anymore about her father name?” asked a deep voice from behind him, and Elrond nearly jumped out of his skin.

It had never been easy to sneak up on him, but his grandparents seemed to be able to do it without even intending to. And that was still strange, too; to have grandparents now. They had come around today to deliver an endless supply of gifts for the new baby.

Tuor of Gondolin was in the doorway to the nursery. He stood out in Valinor, constantly betrayed by the smile lines around his eyes and the grey hair that merged into a soft beard. Behind him Idril stood tall and slender as a candlestick, bright and glowing. Her arms were looped around his waist.

Tuor's smile was somewhat apologetic. “I know it's early, but those of your line are prone to premonitions about their children. I was wondering if you might be the same."

A splinter turned in his chest. "Celebrian and I only gave our boys one name each," Elrond said lightly. "We chose them together, of course. Both of us had vague visions of their future, but not enough to truly know who they would be. And I knew the moment I saw Arwen-"

His throat stuck.

The fingers of Gil-galad's free hand brushed over the back of his.

“I suppose she could never have been anything else,” he said.

Idril’s eyes were sharp as a needle. Elrond felt that she knew every thought in his head, and felt some pity suddenly for every soul that he had turned that very same piercing look on.

“It strikes me that it might be Gil-galad’s turn to name one,” she said. Idril nudged Tuor until he moved out of the doorway and crossed the room in a sweep of skirts to settle herself on the couch. “Unless Celebrian wishes it otherwise?”

“She thinks the same as you,” Gil-galad agreed, perching on the arm of the couch next to Idril. He looked homely there, for all the might and majesty contained under his plain casual robes. He was near glowing in the backlit afternoon sun with the baby in his lap humming happily. “I dare say that Elrond would be better at naming her though! I haven’t a clue where to start.”

“What, you can’t spare one of yours?” Elrond suggested. “You have an excess of names, after all.”

“Stop being greedy, Gil-galad,” Tuor nodded solemnly. He waggled his fingers over Gil’s shoulder at Alamelda, who gave a little wiggle. “You’re hoarding all the names.”

Idril swatted her husband without even looking at him. “Are there no words in your head that you think might fit her?”

“There are,” Gil-galad said, “But every time I look back down at her I find that all the words I know fall away.”

He touched her little face with all the besotted awe of a new father and ran his a finger softly down a single blonde lock.

For a moment, Idril’s eyes were dim with a distant pain. But there was love in her voice when she said, “I know the feeling well.” She smoothed out her skirts. “Might I hold my great-granddaughter?”

“Of course!” Gil-galad exclaimed. He turned to carefully transfer his precious bundle into Idril’s arms and she gathered the child close to her breast with the practiced movements of a mother.

“Oh, what a little darling,” she murmured. “Hello, my little star. Hello, granddaughter.” 

~-~-~

There would be no more half elves in Valinor; save perhaps two.

No half elves would be born here, not to this undying realm that could never allow them the chance to be mortal. So no more children would be born to Elrond and Celebrian, and none to Elladan or Elrohir if they sailed.

And it was not that Alamelda was any less Elrond’s daughter for the fact that it was Celebrian and Gil-galad’s blood that ran in her veins. He loved her with every part of his soul, without boundaries for caution or reason.

It was just that that love terrified him.

 _Arwen,_ he thought, closing his eyes to the sea. _I promise I’m not replacing you._

His lips tasted of salt.

~-~-~

Sometimes in his sleep, Elrond hears the silver bells of Minas Tirith ringing.

It always has the metallic taste and heavy air of a true vision. He knows that in truth the city is full of smells, from the sweet white flowers to the rotting discards of the marketplace; but it is scentless in his dreams. It’s strange how that seems to mute the world around him.

The city has grown over the decades since Elrond left. It is prospering better than ever, expanding every day in shining white. It bustles with life and with joy. He longs to follow the streets until he finds the one that he is really looking for, and see for himself that she has found joy too. Instead he watches her children.

There are three so far. The oldest is a pudgy boy with wide eyes. Elrond had dreamed of him before, in the dying days of the Third Age with a growing dread as his daughter’s fate crystallised before his eyes.

Little Eldarion seems to absorb knowledge like water, listening to every word he hears with an intent look as though it were of the utmost importance. He follows his father around constantly, not speaking up or getting in the way, but trying to mimic everything Aragorn does. He even tries to change his walk to be more like his father’s.

Silmarien is only a year or so younger than him. Where Eldarion is quiet, she is loud and fast. She spent every minute getting into trouble until her baby sister came along.

Silmarien loved Elenwe from the moment she was born, standing on her tip-toes to peer into the cot. She spent patient months playing games on the floor until Elenwe was big enough to walk on her own. Where Silmarien had once been a hectic whirlwind, around Elenwe she is contained and gentle. They’re always found hand in hand, Silmarien leading with Elenwe toddling behind. Like this, they explore the city under Elrond’s watchful eye.

But the times that Elrond treasures most are when they’re dreaming too.

Elenwe is too young, and Eldarion seems to only dream rarely. But the power of their blood runs strong in Silmarien.

“You’re back!” she exclaims delightedly when Elrond steps into her dream.

“Darling!” he cries with his voice full of love and joy. “Have you been good since I saw you last?”

“Of course!” Silmarien returns, although at the end of her sentence a sudden note of doubt slips in. She looks to the side shiftily.

Elrond laughs as he sheds his circlet (how nice, to be able to just throw it away into the ether) and folds his legs to sit next to her. His robes crumble around him.

As always, she tells him everything that has happened since they last spoke (with enough tangents and side stories to rival Bilbo). He listens patiently, trying to imprint every word into his memory. He tries to imprint this too; Silmarien’s face, her gestures, the way she moves and laughs. All the trappings of this mortal body.

He’ll try to tell Celebrian everything later, in bed with nothing between their bodies but the darkness and their whispers. It’s easier for him to talk like that. It’s easier for her to listen.

Silmarien has a great deal to say today, mainly because of a visit from Eowyn, Faramir and their son Elboron. She gets excited when she Elrond about how they let her ride behind Elboron on his pony. Elrond listens quietly, not interrupting even though he saw her go back later and steal the pony out of the stables for a second ride. His heart was in his chest at the time, of course- she’s still small!- but he’s also a little proud of how good a rider she is for one so young.

He expects that her parents didn’t see it that way, of course.

It’s a mention of Arwen that snaps him back to focus.

“Because of course, Naneth can’t get out of bed-“ Silmarien is saying, and the sheer panic that rips through Elrond takes the breath from his chest.

“What do you mean?” he cuts in, terrified. “Why can’t she get out of bed?”

Silmarien blinks at him like he’s stupid. “Because she’s going to have them any day, of course.”

“Have who?” he demands, and Silmarien rolls her eyes.

“The twins!”

~-~-~

Nerdanel, Elrond reflected, was a force of nature in herself. She swept through every room that she entered and left clay smears and marble dust in her wake. She’d made herself quite at home in Finrod and Amarie’s house despite the early hour of the morning and brushed a sleepy Finrod’s offer of food aside in favour of making them all a cooked breakfast herself.

Elrond was not feeling half so awake. He had his hands wrapped around the warm mug in front of him, blinking his eyes open slowly. Across the table Finrod was scribbling away. Amarie was bundled up in a dressing gown with her head on his shoulder.

“Like this?” Finrod asked. He finished a line with a sweeping stroke of pencil and then dramatically spun the paper around.

Elrond tilted his head, look at the sketch and thinking. “Her nose is a little narrower, I think. And her ears are less pointy.”

“Right!” Finrod swept the pad back towards himself and started scribbling again with a furrow between his golden brows. He stuck the tip of his tongue out of the side of his mouth.

“Food!” Nerdanel announced. They all drew back to make room for three plates of toast topped with eggs and other assorted delights, with a chorus of thanks. “You can keep plotting when you’ve eaten.”

She caught sight of the paper then. “Oh, may I have a look?”

Finrod nodded with his mouth full as he tucked into his breakfast with great enthusiasm. “Please do,” Elrond told her sincerely.

She examined it while they ate, perhaps doing calculations in her mind. “And you want me to make it exactly like this?”

“If you still wish to,” Elrond said. “Your offer is very kind, and I will not begrudge you if you change your mind.”

Nerdanel leant across the table and kissed the top of his head. He swallowed, unable to understand why the lump in his throat had suddenly chosen this time to appear.

“Of course,” she said, and when he looked up he found that her eyes were warm and kind. “You’re family.”

The statue was only half finished when he next drops by her studio several weeks later, but the shapes were already so recognisable.

It was a family of figures. There, a noble man and his beautiful wife. There, a growing boy grinning from ear to ear. And here, a girl with mischief in her eyes holding her little sister’s hand.

~-~-~

This time, Elrond opens his eyes to a room dimmed by gauze curtains that tint the bright outside daylight to the hazy dream of dusk. The curtains are fluttering; the breeze is blowing.

He crosses the marble floor.

Up against the wall is a wide cot set under a hanging mobile. He recognises touches of his own house on that mobile; a six pointed star, a woollen quill, and delicate hand-stitching that he recognises immediately.

Before Elrond even looks down, he knows what lies inside.

There is no hair on their heads. Their skin is all wrinkled, but their cheeks are chubby. Their little noses turned up and round like buttons. Their soft fists are intertwined in the way that his had once been. He stands by the cot and drinks them in, two little perfections in a world that he left behind for the sake of paradise.

Elrond closes his eyes again, and when he opens them there is a child in his arms. Their dark grey eyes stare up at him. They are the same as his own, the same as every member of his family, from Luthien to the Dunedain of Elros’s line down all the way to Aragorn. The eyes look back like a mirror.

“Hello darling,” he whispers to the child. “Hello, grand-daughter.”

The silver bells of the city ring, almost drowning out the sound of the sweet melody lilting through the towers.

_“Once there was a little star, shining like the morning…"_

**Author's Note:**

> Alamelda: from the Quenya words melda (dear, beloved) and ala (day)


End file.
